Circle
by Anysia
Summary: General Gunther failed to protect his wife. Years later, Welkin reflects upon his father's plight and its relevance to his own. Angsty WelkinxAlicia, post-Chapter 13. One-shot.


_**A/N**__: Hello, Valkyria Chronicles fandom. I had no real intention of joining your ranks, but this idea has been gnawing at the creative centers of my brain for two months and just will…not…stop. Hopefully transcribing it in such a fashion will both lay it to rest and, if perhaps not contributing to the quality, at least add to the quantity of VC fics here at FFN. _

_Constructive criticism is gratefully accepted—I certainly tried my hardest to keep everyone in-character, but this is a brand-new fandom for me, and I'd love to hear how I can improve in the event that I write further fics for the fandom and/or pairing. Thank you so much for reading._

_[Standard disclaimers apply: Valkyria Chronicles and its characters are the sole intellectual property of Sega Corporation.]_

_-----_

Welkin Gunther could easily remember a great many things.

The complete classification of the European brown snail, for instance, or the migratory patterns of the red-throated diver. He could recite the binomial name of nearly any beast of land, sea, or sky, including several that hadn't even been discovered until he had stumbled across them.

He knew his flora.

He knew his fauna.

He did not remember his mother.

Not entirely, anyway, not really. Where others perhaps had myriad stories and tales, of home-cooked meals and carefully tended papercuts and hand-embroidered pillows and an overwhelming sense of maternal warmth, Welkin had only vague flashes, scraps of hazily-remembered emotion and sensation. He remembered his mother's smile, sweet and gentle even as he tromped into the house, muddy boots and all, a boxed centipede tucked safely under one arm. He remembered the way her soft grey eyes would crinkle slightly at the corners. He remembered the way she reached out with one fair hand and lightly tousled his hair. He remembered her laugh.

And he remembered, just barely, a soothing whisper, a sweet note of perfume, and a softly-sung lullaby that told of stars and gentle lambs as explosions and gunfire sounded in the distance.

These things he remembered, and little else. His memories had faded with time, having steadily been replaced by _Salmo salar _and _Leontopodium alpinum_, by studies and exams, and now, by the demands of wartime, by orders and decorum and the countless responsibilities of a commanding officer.

In fact, his clearest memory of his mother was not of her at all, but rather of his father's reaction to her death.

General Belgen Gunther had seen his share of death in his command—caused a fair bit of it himself, to be honest, but things were different in war. Casualties were inevitable, he knew, and declared so privately and publicly. He mourned each fallen soldier, each coldly slaughtered subordinate, and soon moved on to the next battle, the next mission. Cool competence and a level head led him swiftly through a string of victories, emotion a mere distant thought set aside to gather dust and cobwebs until the imminent threat of wartime finally began to subside.

But emotion interferes often at the least convenient times, or at least those that are the most unanticipated. Such it was the cold, gray November morning when, standing silently with his squad, pulling twisted corpses from the smoldering skeleton of a now-unidentifiable structure, Belgen Gunther recognized the face of his wife among the dead.

This Welkin remembered.

Remembered watching silently from his place beside Martha, her hands, dirty with soot and charcoal, gripping his shoulders tightly, almost painfully, her body shaking intermittently with sobs. Remembered watching his father.

It was the first time he'd ever seen a grown man cry.

The war came to a swift end after that, as the Edelweiss and its commander tore through the front lines with a kind of maddened determination, decimating the last few forces foolish enough to continue a hideously outmatched fight rather than risk the dishonor of retreat.

Belgen Gunther was afforded a hero's welcome in the streets of Randgriz, greeted with cheers and shouts and undying gratitude, admiration. _A decisive victory for Gallia! _the people cried, lauding the general's brilliant efforts, praising him, honoring him. A great man, they said, a _tremendous _man, slowly and steadily casting the Gunther name in silver and bronze. A legend, they said. A hero.

Welkin still called him "Dad".

After the war, there was little of the hardened soldier left within the smiling, bearded man who patiently taught his young son to cast a line and gently coaxed his wailing daughter from her death-grip upon a floating porcavian one summer at the beach. Every so often, particularly on those cold autumn mornings when the fog grew deep and everything took on a gray, somber hue, he'd disappear quietly into the forest for a few hours, and yet when the sun burned away the mist, he'd return home, somehow subdued yet never unpleasant, never unhappy.

Welkin had never suspected that harsh memories of that day still tortured him so, until, years later when, lying prone upon his deathbed, deep in the advanced stages of degenerative disease, he heard his father feverishly whisper her name.

This, too, he remembered. Vividly.

Moreso now than ever.

-----

The med tent smelt strongly of disinfectant, a sickly antiseptic odor that seemed somehow bonded to every surface within, not particularly offensive in and of itself, yet containing within it the stark connotations of pain and loss.

It reminded him of his father in those final days, a kind of sterile death different yet no less terrible than the open, unconsecrated deaths of the battlefield, yet Welkin retained composure, standing straight and tall as befitting of a commanding officer visiting a wounded comrade. A perfect portrait of formality and military competence, and the medic looked up from her charts and eyed him with a note of concern.

As if, somehow, she could see past the detachment he wore as thin, cracked armor, past Lieutenant Gunther, rising hero of Gallia, leader of the acclaimed Squad Seven…to Welkin Gunther, who was breaking inside.

_I don't think Dad ever got over the fact that he couldn't protect her…_

"Still no change," the medic said quietly, pressing her hand to Alicia's forehead. Her eyes were motionless behind too-pale lids; the machines beside her emitted a steady hum that rang deafeningly into the silence.

"Lieutenant Gunther…" the medic began, awkward and hesitant, "I'm afraid that…although the bullet missed her vital organs—"

"I know," Welkin responded quietly, coming to her side and staring down at the comatose figure before him, features inscrutable.

"I'm sorry, sir. I know it must be difficult to lose your second-in-command."

Second-in-command.

His mother. His father. Isara. He'd lost so much already. To lose a subordinate would be yet another storm to weather, and he'd do so as he always had.

If she were merely his subordinate.

Perhaps even if she were merely his friend.

A sudden flash, and he remembered his father standing beside him at his mother's funeral, staring vacantly at the simple coffin, the strong, unflappable General Gunther appearing utterly lost.

"My apologies," Welkin murmured, resting one gloved hand against the smooth white bedsheets, "but could you leave us alone for a few moments?"

The medic hesitated, staring at Welkin for a long moment before nodding an affirmative and stepping outside.

He watched her go, took in the sights and sounds of the base outside, carrying on indifferent to this self-contained tragedy.

After a moment, Welkin turned back to Alicia, watched her chest rise and fall evenly— whether on her own or by the grace of the respirator propped up beside her he chose not to contemplate.

"At least she knew, Dad," Welkin murmured, reaching out and brushing a stray hair from Alicia's forehead. "At least Mom knew."

_I…hope things go well for us. _

She'd been sweaty and dirt-smudged, hair tangled and mussed beneath her headscarf, and yet she'd never looked quite so beautiful (_not true, _a part of him he generally failed to acknowledge and often wasn't entirely sure existed would whisper, and feed him decidedly pleasant memories of the squad's seaside excursion). He'd agreed with the sentiment, blushing and stammering an awkward 'thank you' for the butterfly she gently handed him, and then he'd rushed too quickly to the next briefing, arriving fifteen minutes early and earning a few strange looks from the officers who'd assembled for a round of bawdy jokes and a shared pack of cigars.

_After the war…there's something I want to tell you…_

He'd known, somehow. The culmination of a steadily-growing warmth and affection that had coalesced into something…different. Something he'd never experienced and couldn't begin to solve with all the taxonomy in the world. Warmth, affection, protectiveness, and when he'd held her that night before the Battle of Naggiar, breathing her in, her head lying against his heart, she wasn't just his subordinate, wasn't just his cherished friend…

Welkin was nothing if not intelligent, and yet human relationships were to him an elusive species to be studied and carefully observed—one that he himself had so rarely encountered on his own, and as such he'd had little idea of what name to assign the slow ache, the warmth at her touch, her nearness.

Didn't fully understand until he held her unconscious form in his arms, kneeling in the dirt, her blood running slick and wet across his hands as he screamed desperately for a medic and prayed to whatever god might be listening that he wouldn't lose her. That he wouldn't hold her as she died, utterly helpless, and stand at her memorial, the second generation, the mirror image, a hero in battle laid low by grief and loss.

That his father's fate would not become his own.

He couldn't lose Alicia. Not now…not after all the battles they'd weathered together, the enemies they'd defeated side-by-side, hand-in-hand…

Not just as he had come to realize how much he loved her.


End file.
